Chapter Six: A Little Bit Fascinated
chapter six
A LITTLE BIT FASCINATED
Miles
I
’m sitting next to Josh, eating breakfast with the team, when my phone pings. It’s in my bag beside my foot, and every time I get a new message it sends a buzz up my legs.
Another buzz.
“Is that your phone?” Josh asks and then shovels a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.
“Yeah. Kitty is supposed to check on my mother’s cat this morning.” I reach into my bag to see if it’s her texting me. I hope that happens soon, because the messages from my mom have been relentless, and apparently she requires photographic evidence of PF’s well-being before she’s satisfied. I get it, sort of. My neighbors who are watching Wilfred while I’m away have already sent a whole slew of photos, and I can’t say I don’t appreciate it.
“I still have a hard time believing that her company is called the
Kitty Whisperer and her name is also actually Kitty. I still think it’s a gimmick,” Josh says.
I shrug. “If it is, it’s a pretty good one.”
Parker, who’s sitting across the table, leans in. “Are you guys talking about that woman who trains cats? She’s got a solid social media following. Kitty the Kitty Whisperer?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. What do you know about her?” Josh answers for me.
“She takes care of my great-grandad’s cat. He’s got real bad vision, and even with cataract surgery, it’s not getting any better. But he loves that freaking cat, so I hired her a few months back to help him out, and now she’s trained Bumbles to talk.” He shoves an entire strip of bacon into his mouth, accordion style.
“Wait. What? Do you mean he meows and sounds like he’s saying
I love you
or whatever?” I ask.
Parker shakes his head and holds up a finger, swallowing the bacon before he continues. “There’s this dog on social media who uses all kinds of buttons to communicate. I know this because my sister follows animal accounts and sends me the reels all the time. Anyway, I guess this Kitty woman figured she could apply the same principle to cats, and now Bumbles has three.” He grabs his phone and pulls up a video of a very round cat hitting a button that says “treat” repeatedly in a digital voice. “Here’s the video she posted last week. She’s pretty cool. Kinda hot, too.”
“Have you met her?” I don’t know why that idea irks me. Maybe because Parker is a walking hormone, and the fame of making the
NHL, coupled with the attention on social media—particularly from women—is inflating his ego a little too quickly.
Parker sets his phone back on the table and shakes his head. “Nah, but I watch her videos sometimes. Have you?” His brow quirks up.
“Yeah, yesterday. She’s watching my mother’s cat while I’m away.” I cringe as the image of tackling her to the floor pops into my head. I really wish I could undo that event. I also wish my body would stop having inappropriate reactions to that memory. It’s very conflicting to have a semi over tackling an odd but attractive woman to the floor. Over a water gun.
“Oh man, you’re all uncomfortable. You got a thing for her, don’t you?” Parker grins and nods knowingly, as if he’s reading my mind.
I wipe my damp palms on my pants under the table. “I met her once, and she’s taking care of my mother’s cat.” As if that has any bearing on her level of attractiveness.
“Yeah, but admit it, she’s got that sexy librarian vibe going on.”
“Sexy librarian? Really?” Josh grabs his own phone and punches at the screen with his finger.
“You were browsing her IG account when I called her,” I point out.
“Yeah, but I wasn’t paying attention to what she looks like.” He flips through photos until he reaches one with Kitty’s entire face in the shot, then cocks a knowing brow at me. “Oh yeah, Parker’s right about the sexy librarian thing.”
I brush off their comments. There’s no way I’m admitting I
find her attractive. Or that her disgruntledness with me when I was a d-bag is also hot. “What she looks like has no bearing on her ability to take care of a cat.”
Parker scoffs loudly and makes a lewd comment, and suddenly everyone is on my ass about the Kitty Whisperer.
I ignore their juvenile behavior and check my messages.
I have two from my dad and a voice mail. I haven’t told him Mom is in the hospital yet. Or that the doctors think she has early-onset dementia. My parents started a family later in life, but even still, she’s only in her mid-sixties. Their relationship has been tricky since they divorced. So much so that my dad moved back to British Columbia, where he grew up. He needed to escape the memories, and he has siblings out there. I don’t blame him. The end of their relationship came as a result of too much loss. I don’t know how he’s going to feel about the news, and with this new job and all my own baggage, I just don’t have the bandwidth to take on his, too.
I leave my dad’s messages unanswered and scroll to the next ones, which are from Kitty. Thank God. Because under hers are ones from my mom.
Kitty:
Did you know about this litter situation?!?
Kitty:
I didn’t mean to send that picture of my nostrils.
Kitty:
I was trying to escape the smell from the previous picture and sent it by accident. [puking emoji]
Kitty:
Do you have any idea where your mother keeps the fresh litter? Prince Francis is taking a stand against his current bathroom conditions and it needs to be managed.
I can’t read the tone of her messages, but I imagine she’s pissed based on the punctuation at the end of the first message. Great. Just what I need, another strike against me.
I scroll up to the picture that’s basically a closeup of her nose and a bit of chin, and continue to the previous image. It’s a litter box, one that needs to be changed, like a week ago, if I had to guess.
Dogs always do their business outside. I didn’t even consider there might be a litter box that would need to be changed. And now I’ve left Kitty to deal with that disgusting task. I wonder if she’ll charge me more for that. Probably. I would if I were her.
I send her a bunch of emojis, including the cringey face one and the shrugging shoulders.
In the background the guys are still talking about Kitty and her hotness level. It’s an astoundingly juvenile conversation.
A new gif appears—she seems to be a fan of these—and it annoys me an irrational amount that it’s a cute cat talking on a phone. A message follows:
Kitty:
Can I call you?
Miles:
sure
.
A phone conversation is probably easier than texting, and I’ll be able to gauge how annoyed she is with me and whether I’ll need to find another kitty whisperer when I’m back in Toronto. Two seconds later my phone rings. Which, for whatever reason, I don’t expect, even though she just asked if she could. I hop up from the table and knock my chair over in the process. It clatters
to the floor with a bang and draws even more attention, making my hasty exit impossible.
And because Parker is young, and apparently a jerk, he yells, “Who you talking to? Is that Kitty? Ask her if she has a boyfriend and if it’s serious. And if she’s interested in hot hockey players with excellent stamina.”
I right my chair and shoot a glare his way, then bust my ass away from the table. “Hey. Hi. Hello.” My conversation skills and my coordination are clearly suffering this morning.
“It sounds like you might be busy.” Her voice is raspy. She clears her throat and sniffs once.
“It’s fine. I’m out with the team.”
“The team?” she echoes.
“Yeah. I’m a data analyst for Toronto’s NHL team. We’re out for breakfast.”
“Oh. Wow. That’s . . . you work for the NHL?”
“Yeah, behind the scenes, though, not a player.” Not that she needed the clarification. I’m not built like hockey players. Where they have legs like century-old tree trunks, mine are more like slightly mature saplings.
“So you work with numbers and hockey players?” Her voice sounds far away, or quiet.
“In a nutshell, yes.” It’s a bit more involved, but only people who do stats can appreciate the art.
“That sounds . . . interesting.”
I can’t tell if she’s mocking me. I don’t even know why I care. She’s my cat sitter, not someone I should be trying to impress.
Even though for some reason that seems to be what I’m doing. “Yeah. Anyway, I don’t think I’m going to be much help with the litter situation, since I didn’t even realize it would be an issue.”
“Clearly, considering the state of the litter box. My olfactory senses are decimated thanks to that.”
She doesn’t laugh, so I’m guessing that’s not a joke. Maybe she’s being overdramatic about it. “It can’t be that bad.”
She huffs; it’s an annoyed sound. “If it wasn’t neglectful, I’d leave the mess so you know exactly how disgusting it is when you’re forced to clean it up. Have you ever been to a summer music festival?”
“I don’t get what this has to do with the cat litter situation.” Man, she’s seriously ramped up right now.
“Have you ever had to use one of those portable toilets at a concert?”
“Sure. Yeah.”
“Think about how disgusting they are by the end of the concert. Especially with all the drunk assholes who pee all over the seat and leave it for the next person. Now multiply that by about a thousand, and you might have a chance at understanding how disgusting Prince Francis’s bathroom situation is.”
“Come on, Kitty. You’re exaggerating.” I grimace at my condescending tone and my foot-in-mouth response.
“You would say that.” More huffing on her end. “In the interest of making sure this doesn’t happen again, I’d like to set Prince Francis up with an automatic scooper. I get a promotional discount, which I’ll pass on to you.”
“What does something like that cost?” I’d ask what in the world an automatic scooper is, but she sounds frustrated with me as it as.
“I think you should ask what it will
save
you. Which is me quitting on you. The really high-quality ones run about six or seven hundred.”
“Dollars? That’s ridiculous. Does it clean itself or something?”
“It removes waste so Prince Francis doesn’t have to step around his own poop. If that’s too expensive, we can go with a basic one, which are about a hundred and fifty dollars and work well enough.”
“For a litter box? Yeesh. This is just more proof that dogs are better pets. Their poop bags cost all of five bucks for a roll of a hundred.”
“Why am I not surprised to hear those words coming out of your mouth? If I didn’t care about Prince Francis and his welfare I would quit right now. And I’ll need to pick up the litter to go with it. And that will be another hundred and twenty, but it’ll give you at least two months’ worth of litter and it works out to about ten dollars a week.”
“Ten bucks a week for litter? That seems inflated. I’ve seen those huge bags at the pet store for the same price.”
“The non-clumping litter is cheap. This is not that. Would you buy one-ply toilet paper for your bathroom?”
“He’s a freaking cat. He licks his own damn balls and his asshole.”
“Well, it would be a lot nicer for Prince Francis if he didn’t have to also lick stray litter out from between his toe beans.”
I can practically see her with her hand on her hip, glaring angrily at me.
Why in the world does that jack me up?
“A few hundred dollars to upgrade Prince Francis’s bathroom situation and curb his destructive tendencies seems like a pretty reasonable price to pay, don’t you think?”
“Man, cats are hella high maintenance.”
She makes a noise that sounds a lot like a growl. “Hopefully once this issue is taken care of, he won’t be as hard on your mother’s drapes or her trinkets.”
I nod my agreement, then realize she can’t see me.
Parker pokes his head out into the foyer. We’re in the hotel’s buffet restaurant, and I’m standing in the lobby. “You still talking to Kitty Whisperer?”
I put my hand over the receiver. “Can you fuck the hell off?”
“Excuse me? I’m trying to be helpful here! Keep it up and I’ll report you for improper animal care!” Kitty sounds rightfully indignant.
“Shit. Sorry. Don’t report me. That wasn’t directed at you. One of the players is giving me the gears. Hold on a sec.” I don’t bother to cover the receiver this time. “Parker, you’re not even nineteen yet. You’re barely legal to vote, you can’t buy alcohol here or anywhere in Canada except for Quebec, you still think making fart noises with your armpit is funny, and you only need to shave your face once a week. I’m not going to ask Kitty if she’s interested in dating you, because I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.”
Parker gives me a look. “I shave twice a week.”
Kitty chuckles. It’s the first time I’ve heard her make that sound. For some reason it reminds me of adorable birds from a princess movie twittering in the background. Oddly, I think Parker managed to defuse the escalating situation between me and the Kitty Whisperer.
“She’s laughing.”
“Don’t tell him that! You’ll hurt his feelings,” Kitty chastises.
“He makes three million dollars a year as a rookie and flirts like a fiend. He’ll be fine.”
“Why you doing me dirty like that? Ask her if she’s seen Great-Grandad O’Toole lately.”
I’m annoyed that Parker is out here, making it impossible for me to finish this conversation with Kitty.
“Oh! He’s Mr. O’Toole’s great-grandson? Tell him I just saw him this morning, and he couldn’t find his pants. I think he needs to get his eyes checked again. Or maybe some new glasses.”
And now I’m annoyed that she’s already friendlier with Parker than she is with me. Granted, I have been a dick.
“I’ll pass the message on.” I wave Parker away. “By the way, you always tip to the right when you’re about to take a shot on net. That’s why the opposition steals the puck from you just before you take the shot.”
His jaw drops and he runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck.”
“Now let me finish my conversation in peace, or I won’t tell you how to fix the problem.”
Parker disappears back into the restaurant. “Sorry about that.” I sigh. It’s not just data that I analyze. It’s assessing the plays, too,
and figuring out what works and what doesn’t. It’s my absolute dream job, but sometimes the ego and the player antics can be a lot to handle. “Kitty? You still there?”
“Yeah. Yes. Here.” She exhales softly. “Did you just give advice to an NHL player?”
“Sort of. My role is to look at the numbers and watch players so I can help the coach build on their strengths and understand their weaknesses as individuals, and as part of their line. Like who works best together. That sort of thing.” I rub the back of my neck.
“I’ve never seen a hockey game live, but I used to watch it on TV with my dad sometimes. He was a big fan. If he couldn’t watch it, he would listen to the games on the radio.” She makes a humming sound. “Funny that of all the things my dad loved, my mom never actually sat down and watched it with him.”
I realize she’s talking about her dad in the past tense, and it makes me want to ask questions. But I don’t have the chance.
She clears her throat, and her voice takes on that sharp edge I’ve grown accustomed to. “Anyway. I need to get Prince Francis’s litter situation handled, and I’ll try to keep the costs down.”
“Should I send you money up front for that?” I don’t even know how often she bills yet. But from the rates on her site, it seems like cat sitting is a lucrative job.
“I have a couple of litter boxes on hand, so it’s not out of pocket.”
“If that changes, let me know.” I should stop griping about money so she can be less annoyed with me.
“Of course. Well, I need to handle this litter box before Prince Francis decides to leave another poop bomb on the floor. Tell Parker I said good luck!”
“You too!” I say, like an idiot.
“I have cats on my side. I don’t need luck.”
She ends the call, and I stand there for a moment, trying to figure out what exactly it is about Kitty that makes me want her to hate me less. Maybe because I’ve already made a terrible first and second impression with her? Or because our crappy intro is an echo of the rest of my life? Who knows?
But apparently I suck with people.
And cats.
And Kitty.